


smiles and laughter

by vohtaro



Series: founders era [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Depression, Mentioned Uchiha Madara, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27486859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vohtaro/pseuds/vohtaro
Summary: Hashirama isn’t fine, and he hasn’t been for a long time. Tobirama doesn’t know what to do beyond trying to keep the pieces of him together.
Series: founders era [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961821
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	smiles and laughter

**Author's Note:**

> tw for vague references to suicidal thoughts by secondary character

Tobirama finds him waist deep in the river’s current. Madara’s chakra had dwindled into obscurity a half hour ago, and for the first time since Tobirama was a child, he doesn’t shiver when he reaches out with his sensing. 

Hashirama is motionless when he lands on the rocks behind him. He would have thought him dead were it not for the faint flickering of chakra deep in his core. 

“Anija.” He steps forward, his eyes turning to the still body of Madara. He’s facedown in the river, his mantle soaked through with river water and blood, a sword buried halfway to the hilt through the center of the uchiwa emblem on his back. 

Hashirama remains silent. Tobirama half expects Madara to turn his head and spit out some foul insult at any moment. The air is thick with the scent of blood, soot, and rainfall. It’s worse than most battlefields he’s ever approached. It smells like despair. 

His gaze falls once again to his brother. 

Hashirama’s shoulders shift slightly. His right arm moves under the water, bracing against a rock. 

“... Anija--”

Hashirama breaks his silence with a shattering sob, his body curls towards the river’s surface, and he cries. 

* * *

Hashirama has always been a clever deceiver. Even when they were kids, he could go from jovial to sulking and right back again in the blink of an eye. It made him quite the hustler on occasion, able to play the part to gain enough doubt before pulling the rug out from under someone. Very rarely did he use it on the battlefield, though. His power was so well-renowned that it wasn’t necessary to play as anything other than what he truly was: a god amongst men, a shinobi unlike any other. 

Especially now. 

There is no service for Madara, no ceremony that takes place. The village couldn’t publicly mourn a man who had attacked their livelihood. The Uchiha seemed adamant to erase Madara’s history in the name of good faith with the village. So the news of Madara’s death is nothing more than a simple statement of fact that would eventually fade over time. 

Autumn is giving way to winter’s chill. In the weeks that follow, Hashirama keeps to his office far more than he ever has. He arrives before dawn to tend to his duties and works late into the evenings when everyone else has gone home. He’s late to dinners and forgets about arrangements, whether for the village or with his own family. When he misses three important appointments in a row, Tobirama takes it upon himself to personally fetch him for meetings and joins him for hearing civilian grievances during the day. 

He’s a very good mediator. He has a warm presence and a generous nature. When they listen to the mundane complaints of their people, Hashirama smiles and nods along. He laughs at odd tales and promises to fix their problems as well as he can. He’s a good Hokage.

But he’s not the same as he once was. His smiles don’t reach his eyes. His laughs are forced, often too loud. He’s working himself thin and Tobirama is watching him wither away before his very eyes. The facade appeases everyone else, but Tobirama is all but certain it’s a cover. He’s picking at the fraying edges of every hint and clue, but the truth lurks in the darkest recesses of his brother’s soul.

The darkness could be all that’s left. Something has been severed -- or rather, ripped entirely from the very fabric of his being, tossed into that god-forsaken river, and is now lost to its current. 

* * *

He’s standing on edge of the cliffside overlooking the village. 

His feet are literally two inches over the edge. 

But he’s whirling around and smiling big and bright at Tobirama when he hears his footfalls. His heels now rest one inch from the edge. 

Tobirama tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. There’s a meeting soon, and he’d like to keep Hashirama’s track record clean for this one. 

“It’s a lovely day,” Hashirama says, approaching Tobirama with long strides. Spring has come into bloom and the flowers are budding. It’s usually Hashirama’s favorite time of year. “Unfortunate that we have to spend it inside the office.” 

Tobirama watches him closely, his expression steady. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a hammer. 

“The Tsuchikage probably won’t appreciate the weather,” he offers, suddenly aware of his hands, how they uselessly hang by his sides. He folds his arms. “I imagine he’ll have a lot to complain about.” 

Hashirama hums thoughtfully, eyes averting to the ground. “Well, we’ll have to try and turn his mood around.” 

Tobirama wonders how on earth Hashirama can find the room to think of anyone else right now. 

But he nods. He suggests they depart, and they do. They attend their meetings and Hashirama plays a good host and at least makes the Tsuchikage not _so_ irritated with the situation at hand. He smiles and laughs, tells a story or two that earns a smile from their honored guest. They go through their day and as they leave the office, Hashirama mentions something about having dinner with Mito. 

Tobirama lies awake that night, clenching and relaxing his fists, unable to stop their shaking. 

* * *

It’s a hot summer day when Tobirama finds the Hokage’s office empty at noon. The folders he was holding all drop to the floor, the papers scattering like mice. Tobirama curses to himself. When had he become so complacent? He had seen Hashirama just the night before, they’d shared drinks and traded stories over dinner. It was a pleasant evening. 

There’s no ceremony in the manner he barges into the Senju household and runs down the hallway to Hashirama’s room, sliding the shoji aside hard enough to break its frame. Hashirama scrambles upright in his futon, his hands halfway up to form a seal before he realizes who it is. 

They stare at each other. Tobirama’s breathing is the only sound between them for several moments. Hashirama’s eyes are wide, somewhat distant despite the urgency. He blinks once, then again, and licks his lips. “Tobirama,” he starts, clearing his throat of the roughness in his voice. 

“Why aren’t you in the office?” Tobirama snaps, his knuckles white as he grips the door frame. 

There’s a heavy pause before Hashirama is suddenly laughing and waving his hand dismissively. “I hate to say it, but it’s so _hot_ out, I--” 

“ _No,_ ” and before Tobirama can stop to think, he’s marching across the length of his room and dropping to his knees. He’s still wearing his shoes in a horrendous breach of etiquette. The thought won’t cross his mind for a long while, not while Hashirama is lying to his face and pretending everything is fine. “ _Why_ are you not there?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he replies sheepishly, laughing again, and if Tobirama wasn’t so terrified right now, he’d be tempted to slap him. 

“You do, you understand _perfectly_.” His tone is harsh -- another thing to reprimand himself for later. 

Now Hashirama’s smile fades. His brows furrow, the corners of his lips pulling into a small frown. “I really don’t.”

Is it true? Does he really not understand? Does he not see how different he is now? How his entire being has been fractured and put back together with pieces missing? Tobirama finds himself unable to find the words for it. He doesn’t have the evidence, he doesn’t have empirical data beyond a few absences and a handful of fleeting moments they’ve shared that have felt entirely _wrong_. 

He stares at Hashirama, his last brother, and doesn’t recognize him. 

“Things have changed,” he starts, “since you fought Madara.” 

“A lot has changed,” Hashirama replies. There’s no smile this time. 

“Yes,” Tobirama agrees. “You’re…” 

“The village is doing well,” Hashirama interjects. “I suppose my tardiness this morning isn’t helping that along, is it?” and without a second’s delay, Hashirama has pushed down his blanket and is up on his feet, smiling. He straightens his jinbei and goes to fetch himself fresh clothes, filing through a few options in his closet. “I’ll be along. I apologize for this.” 

Tobirama is still on the floor, bewildered. “Anija…”

“Give me, say, a half hour. I’ll have changed and eaten and I’ll be in my office. Were there many civilians coming in today?”

Tobirama can’t muster a single word in response. 

“Tobirama?” Hashirama looks back at him, expression expectant. 

“... A few, yes. No more than usual.” 

“Very well. Give me their names and I’ll take care of them right away.”

Tobirama finds himself outside of Hashirama’s home a few minutes later, unaware of how he got there. He walks back to the office in a daze. Hashirama is never late to the office after that. 

* * *

Hashirama is drunk. 

He’s drunk more often these days. 

He’s drunk and standing in the courtyard with his hands up in a sparring stance, facing Tobirama, who is stone-cold sober and worried. 

“Come now, I want to see what you can do!”

Mito is standing on the engawa, watching them closely. The winter night is frigid but the sky is clear and brilliant above them. 

Hashirama could remove the burden of his inebriation at any time. There was a time that he wouldn’t allow himself to get beyond tipsy, in part because his body was subconsciously taking care of it for him. Hashirama is deliberate in the ways he destroys himself. 

“Anija, we have a long day tomorrow,” Tobirama tries. It’s a weak excuse, but it’s worth a shot. 

“Every day is a long day,” Hashirama retorts, licking his lips and steadying himself. “Five minutes.” 

Five minutes. Always five minutes. Five minutes for a spar, five minutes before returning to the office, five minutes longer to play with their siblings in the forest near their settlement, before the village existed and before either of them had fought in a battle and killed with their own two hands. 

Tobirama exhales softly. “Taijutsu only?” 

“Taijutsu only,” Hashirama agrees. Using his chakra while drunk was dangerous. 

“Very well.” He’s very certain he can feel Mito’s eyes on him as much as on Hashirama. 

It starts simply enough. Hashirama is patient in combat, while Tobirama is more assertive. Their spars could be mere routines at this point given the amount of times they’ve practiced together. Hashirama swings, Tobirama dodges and aims for Hashirama’s ribs. A hand closes around his wrist and pulls, leading Tobirama through his motion, but he knows what to do and swings his leg up behind him. There’s no surprise when he feels Hashirama’s forearm against the back of his calf as he blocks the blow. 

They trade moves back and forth. Hashirama is still an adept fighter despite having consumed several rounds of sake. Tobirama feels himself relax, settling into what he knows best. He’s a shinobi, first and foremost. Maybe even before being human. Hashirama is no doubt the same. They were raised to be weapons from the very start. 

Behind them, Mito turns and enters their home, cautiously satisfied. 

The moment she’s out of view, Hashirama’s fist barrels forward with far more power behind it. It knocks back Tobirama’s palm with incredible force, sending him stumbling back two steps, creating a brief lull in their spar. 

“Stop holding back,” Hashirama speaks quietly. He’s hardly breathing any faster than usual.

Tobirama stares back at him. In that moment, Hashirama reminds him of their father. He rarely has before now.

Maybe he needs this, Tobirama thinks as he settles into another stance and prepares to start again. A true exertion of himself, to run himself ragged like he did before peace was more or less achieved. Tobirama can’t say he’s always itched for battle now that they’ve come this far. He keeps himself busy enough with his own endeavors and side hobbies, developing new jutsu when the mountain of paperwork is done. 

Hashirama is a man who has had but one equal. One man who could truly challenge his title as a god and bring him to the brink. Nobody else came close. Not in strength, not in will, not in heart. Like Madara, Hashirama is a protector. The village was born of their desire to protect the ones they cared about. But protecting the village came at the cost of killing the one person Hashirama cared about most. 

They start again, and Hashirama makes the first move this time with a quick jab. 

_Does he regret his decision?_

Tobirama dodges his fist, then jumps back to avoid Hashirama’s heel sweeping the dirt. 

_Would he go back and change things?_

There’s more aggression in this round, evident by the way Hashirama invades his space and gives him little room for trivial mistakes. This close, he can spot the flush on his cheeks, smell the faint aroma of alcohol on his breath. 

_Does Hashirama wish Madara had been the victor of their battle?_

He tries to grab the back of Hashirama’s neck, but his arms are knocked away with ease. Tobirama instead grabs Hashirama’s fist as it sails by his ear and tries twisting him towards the ground, but Hashirama moves with it and rolls onto his shoulder while wrenching his hand free from his grip before jumping to his feet again. He sways ever so slightly, but that’s about it.

They move together fast, Tobirama swings, and the crack of Hashirama’s jaw against his fist doesn’t register with him for a moment; it takes a second for him to acknowledge the stinging pain that blooms along his knuckles. 

Hashirama’s back foot slides a few inches in the dirt from the force of the blow. He exhales sharply before wiping the back of his hand over his lips, breathes in deeply. A smear of crimson adorns his knuckles. His lips pull into a slight grin and he raises his hands again. “Good.” There’s blood on his teeth. “Keep going.” 

So he does.

He connects with Hashirama’s ribs once. Hashirama clips Tobirama’s shoulder with his heel. Tobirama lands another firm punch to his jaw that has him spitting blood to the side. It all comes to a head when Tobrama grabs Hashirama yet again by the wrist, but instead of attempting to take him down, he pulls the arm straight out and strikes at the socket of his shoulder with enough force to dislocate it entirely. 

Hashirama grimaces through the pain. It’s the moment of utter _shock_ on Tobirama’s end at his own actions that buys Hashirama the second he needs to kick out against Tobirama’s thigh, destabilizing his balance and dropping him to the ground. Foolishly, Tobirama looks up at his brother instead of jumping away and takes a solid kick to his sternum that sends him sprawling back on the dirt. He hears the vague _pop_ of Hashirama relocating his shoulder all in the same movement that he kneels down on top of him, his eyes bright, exhilarated and _alive_ , his fists poised towards Tobirama in preparation for continuing their spar. 

“That was good,” Hashirama says, finally a bit winded. He rises up again, relieving the pressure on Tobirama’s chest, and offers his hand. “Again.” 

On the ground, Tobirama stays still. It’s not a spar anymore. “Anija…” 

“I’m warmed up! My arm is fine. You were holding your own very well.” 

Tobirama chews on the inside of his lip. He knows Mito is still away. She may have retired for the evening. 

“Why?” 

Hashirama’s eyes widen a fraction. “Why what?” And he laughs, loud and boisterous, “This is fun! It’s been a while since we had a chance to do this.”

It’s been a while since he’s _felt_ anything like this. 

Tobirama eventually takes his hand and lets himself be pulled up. He settles back, weighing his options, eyes set on Hashirama’s. He wants to push him, he wants to see how far Tobirama will take it. Is he looking for exhaustion? What is he trying for?

The answer comes in an unexpected form, because before too long of going up against Tobirama’s distracted sparring, Hashirama’s expression turns dark and he makes his move. Within two seconds, Tobirama is grabbed by his wrist and thrown down onto the ground, this time face-first in the dirt with his arm twisted behind him, Hashirama’s knee pressed into the center of his back. 

“Focus,” he warns lowly, his fingers digging into his skin. He doesn’t want a spar. He wants a fight. 

Tobirama is good at ending fights. 

Determined to make this the final round between them, Tobirama doesn’t hesitate when they rise again. They trade blows again, each strike more bruising than the last, a flurry of punches and fake outs and quick parries. His arms burn from exertion. His shins ache a little more with each block. His knuckles are reddened and starting to bruise, while Hashirama’s nose is fractured at some point and dribbles blood over his lips. 

It’s only because of his lingering drunkenness that Tobirama sees his opening. A recovery that takes a second too long on Hashirama’s part as he grounds his feet in the dirt. It’s all he needs to end this. He steps in, blocks a swinging punch with his elbow and delivers a quick jab to his throat. Teeth biting down, he swings once at his left lower rib, then directly to his solar plexus, ignores the taste of bile in the back of his throat as he hears something crack. Hashirama is still gasping in a breath when Tobirama takes a step back, lifts his front leg, and drives a powerful kick to the center of Hashirama’s chest. It’s enough to send him back a couple of feet before crashing into the dirt. 

The courtyard is still. Hashirama doesn’t jump up right away. Tobirama is tempted to sigh with relief, but he doesn’t _feel_ relief. There’s shame creeping from the back of his neck, sickening and acrid on his tongue, joined by the faint taste of blood. Inhaling slowly, he uncurls his throbbing hands, willing them to remain still. “Is that enough?” he asks quietly. 

Hashirama’s chakra illuminates the dark courtyard with a faint green glow, easing the pain on his trachea. He doesn’t address his ribs. “You did very well.” Hashirama is smiling. It actually looks honest this time.

“Five minutes is up.” 

Hashirama hums. He’s lying on his back his arms outstretched, his expression soft and his eyes far away. Tobirama suspects the alcohol isn’t the reason for it. 

He speaks up again. “Are you going to fix your ribs?” 

Hashirama doesn’t answer right away. He looks pensive, studying something that isn’t there until his eyes slip closed. “I will.” 

The answer is unsettling. “You will.” 

“I fix things, don’t I?” he asks, smiling to himself. “I fix things… the problems in the village, the people’s concerns, everything else… That's what a Hokage does.” 

Tobirama doesn’t say anything. The stinging in his hands is mere white noise in the background. 

“I can fix… almost everything.” And he laughs quietly, soft and morose, forlorn and utterly _miserable_. 

Tobirama can see it in his mind’s eye: Madara. Motionless and dead. 

“Fix your ribs,” he says softly, “and your shoulder, too. Then we’ll get you inside.” 

Hashirama doesn’t move from his place on the ground. Tobirama shivers, the night air digging it’s icy teeth into his skin now that they’ve stopped sparring. “I wonder...” Hashirama murmurs softly, almost to himself, his eyes still closed. 

Nothing happens for almost a minute.

Tobirama doesn’t look away from him. He thinks Hashirama is holding his breath. 

They both shiver with the breeze, and Hashirama finally opens his eyes, repairs his ribs and his shoulder, and slowly returns to the house. 

* * *

To pin everything on Madara is a misnomer. There is no denying the damage his death has done, but to say it all began and ended with him is, even for Tobirama, unnecessarily cruel. Children were not meant to be cold-blooded killers. Teenagers were not meant to make decisions that would determine the very survival of their entire clan. One man could not bear the weight of an entire people without straining under the pressure.

But the fact of the matter is that Madara became such a fixture in Hashirama’s life that he’d placed all of his hopes and dreams on the foundation of a man who had already lost his reason to remain. 

All Madara had was Hashirama. 

All Hashirama had was Madara. 

Except Hashirama did have more. He _does_ have more. Yet somehow at the same time, he doesn’t. Tobirama doesn’t wish to think ill of his brother like this, but the connection he shared with Madara was unlike any connection he had shared before or since. Tobirama never understood their bond. He’s never found solace in a stranger the way Hashirama had. There is a certain persistent hope that he and Madara both shared, and he’s tempted to envy it. 

But he sees the damage that it’s wrought. Despite all of that persistence, Hashirama’s hope has taken a vicious beating over the course of his life. It now lies battered and bloodied in his hands, taking its time to heal. That is, if it will heal at all. 

He wants to blame Madara. To some extent, he does. Cursing him as the sole perpetrator is easier than unraveling the snarled tangle of threads linking every moment of trauma in their lives from the very beginning. 

Tobirama stands before an inconspicuous plot of dirt amongst hundreds of unmarked graves, staring down at Madara’s lifeless buried body far, far below, and nearly wishes he’d just fucking come back and put an end to Hashirama’s suffering.

* * *

Winter passes, and spring emerges once again. 

It’s been over a year since Madara died, and Hashirama carries on. 

Tobirama watches him closely, enough to have gotten on his nerves a handful of times. 

He and Mito are having a child. They are celebrating the occasion. 

Tobirama has come to understand that looking for the man Hashirama used to be is a foolish endeavor. He needs time to adapt to a world that has fundamentally changed around him. In the meantime, Tobirama will help in whatever ways he can to be whatever Hashirama needs him to be. 

Because in truth, Hashirama is not fine, and he never truly will be. He hasn’t been fine since he was ten years old, staring down at his Kawarama’s grave. He hasn’t been fine since he found Itama’s body, cold and lifeless and alone. He hasn’t been fine since he took his first life on the battlefield. He hasn’t been fine since Madara’s identity was revealed, and he hasn’t been fine since he ended his life. There are countless moments in between where pieces of Hashriama’s humanity were chipped away, bit by bit. Tobirama does what he can to keep him from crumbling. 

It’s an undoubtedly selfish pursuit. After all, Hashirama is his last brother, and he has a growing family. A village to lead, too. The idea of a world without Hashirama in it terrifies him to his core. For all the times Hashirama has idly remarked about Tobirama’s ability to run the village one day, Tobirama fears that all of Hashirama’s efforts will be entirely undone if anybody else but him takes the lead. 

For now, he does what he thinks is right. He helps Hashirama manage the village. He visits him regularly and indulges his impulsive moments. They spend late nights playing dice games (though Hashirama suspiciously never seems to lose). Tobirama cherishes every smile and laugh, sincere or not.

**Author's Note:**

> Hashirama is going through life and he’s Totally Fine(tm). Honestly it wouldn't surprise me if he had no real sense of the trauma he's accumulated over his life that's trying to drag him into the ground. He’s just going through the motions at this point.
> 
> It’s important to note that Tobirama’s approach to handling Hashirama’s depression/mental health is not intended to be depicted as the /right/ way to handle it. I imagine the subject of mental health doesn’t come up at all. (See: Kakashi is totally fine to be ANBU and there's no evidence of mental instability after seeing both his comrades die, one by his own hand, lmao he’s fiiiiiine). Konoha could probably do with investing in mental health services for literally everyone in the village but y’know shinobi are raised to literally repress their feelings so… I’m sure that’ll work out /great/.
> 
> Find me on twitter crying abt Hashirama 24/7


End file.
